by Erica James
‘I can’t think,’ said Romily, exchanging a smile with Florence.
‘And you, sir,’ the handsome American said, turning to Billy, ‘must be none other than Billy Minton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Billy shook hands with him. ‘Are you staying in the village?’
‘I sure am. I showed up unannounced and being the perfect English hostess, Romily has kindly invited me to stay for Christmas.’
‘You might not think that after I’ve put you on potato peeling and washing-up duty for the duration of your stay,’ said Romily.
He laughed and Florence said, ‘How will Mrs Collings feel about that?’
‘She won’t know anything about it. She’s snowed in, so I shall be in sole charge of the kitchen this year. You and the family will join us on Boxing Day for drinks, won’t you? Snow permitting, that is.’
‘Of course.’
From a large shopping bag, Romily pulled out four beautifully wrapped presents. ‘Put these under your tree,’ she said.
Taking them, Florence said, ‘If you have a moment, could I have a word with you, alone, please?’ She inclined her head towards the swing doors.
‘I’ll just be a few minutes,’ Romily told her handsome friend.
‘Take as long as you like. I’m going to enjoy choosing us a selection of these fine pastries. Billy, what do you recommend?’
‘I’m sorry for dragging you away from your guest,’ Florence said, when the swing doors closed behind them, ‘but I wanted to tell you I’ve received another letter. It was delivered just a few minutes ago.’
‘Presumably it wasn’t to wish you season’s greetings?’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ Florence took the letter out of her apron pocket and gave it to Romily.
When she’d read it, Romily said, ‘You know there’s no truth in it, don’t you, Florence? It’s just spiteful meddling.’
‘It’s hard not to think the worst,’ murmured Florence.
Romily stared at the piece of paper with its glued-on words cut from a newspaper. ‘I’m still convinced these letters are nothing but wild shots in the dark. Nothing but somebody wanting to cause mischief in order to give themselves a feeling of superiority.’
‘Wouldn’t that person want to see the results of their spite, though? Otherwise, what’s the point?’
‘Sometimes it’s enough for a twisted mind to stay in the shadows imagining the trouble being stirred up. A bit like playing God.’
‘If it is random, why haven’t more people received letters?’
‘Unless the recipients of the letters are prepared to come forward, we have no way of knowing just who has received one.’
Taking the letter from Romily, Florence slipped it back into her apron pocket. ‘I know we can’t be sure, but it seems it’s only women who have been targeted.’
‘I agree, and would therefore surmise that it’s because the person behind the letters sees women as weak and easily upset. And I think for your sanity, Florence, you should show this latest letter to Billy and tell him about the ones before. You’ll feel better for having Billy knowing what’s troubling you. And now I really ought to go and save Red from an excess of interrogation by the good ladies of the parish.’
Florence smiled. ‘He is rather dishy. Like Gregory Peck, or Rock Hudson. Is he somebody . . . special?’
Romily smiled too. ‘Strictly between you and me, I think he might be. But not a word to anybody else.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
They hugged each other goodbye, wishing one another a happy Christmas.
Watching Romily and her handsome American friend leave the shop, their sledge loaded up with shopping, Florence thought they made an attractive couple. And since Christmas was a time for wishes, she wished that Mr Red St Clair might become a very special part of Romily’s life.
She wished too that she didn’t feel so nervous telling Billy about the letters. What if he was upset that she had doubted him?
Or worse still, what if guilt got the better of him and he admitted there was some truth in what he was accused of?
Chapter Seventy-Two
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Julia
Breathless with laughter and exertion, Julia stood for a moment to watch Charles chase after Ralph with a snowball in his hand.
They had been out here in the garden for over an hour, the snow constantly falling. It had been Ralph’s idea for Julia to have a go at sledging with him and Charles. To Ralph’s disbelief, she had admitted that she had never been on a sledge before. Her father had been against such frivolity when she’d been a child, and Arthur had said it was not befitting of any wife of his to behave in so undignified a manner. ‘Then you haven’t lived, step-mama.’ Ralph had said. ‘And it’s time you did! Isn’t that so, Charlie-Boy?’
His eyes ablaze with delight, Charles had agreed. ‘Come on, Mummy,’ he’d said, ‘it’ll be fun. You can be on the sledge with me, that way you won’t be scared. I’ll look after you, I promise.’
Her heart had melted like the snow on his long lashes as he’d stared up at her. How had she and Arthur produced such a sweet and beautiful little boy?
Charles had been right; it had been fun racing down the slope, and even when they’d hit a bump and they’d both been thrown off the sledge, she had rolled over in the snow and laughed. She’d laughed and laughed, until her sides had ached. How free she had felt!
She smiled now as Ralph deliberately let Charles catch him up and then bombarded him with snow, making Charles yelp. Watching them play so happily together, Julia wished it could always be like this.
No Arthur.
That was what she meant. No Arthur telling her what to do and threatening to tell the police that she was the one who drove into Hope.
And no Miss Casey either, always looking down her nose at Julia, making her feel so insignificant.
Ralph had forced her to see her situation exactly for what it was. She was married to a man who couldn’t possibly love her, not when he kept her virtually as a prisoner, and was prepared to lie so she would be sent to prison.
Could there be another way to live, just as Ralph said? But how would she manage? How would she care for Charles the way she would want to? She had no money of her own. Not a penny.
Guiltily, and through the falling snow, she turned to look up at the house behind them, as though it could somehow read her mind and betray her to Arthur. At the top of the house, in one of the windows where Miss Casey had her suite of rooms – a bedroom with her own private sitting room and kitchenette – stood the woman herself. Her arms folded across her chest, she stared back at Julia. At this distance, Julia couldn’t make out her expression, but it was probably one of haughty disapproval.
‘Don’t let the old witch intimidate you,’ said Ralph, coming over to Julia. ‘Wave back at her with your cheeriest smile.’
To her amazement, Julia found herself doing as Ralph instructed and when Miss Casey stepped away from the window, she felt a small sense of triumph.
‘See,’ said Ralph. ‘Nothing to it. You just have to show her you’re not scared of her.’
‘Who was that you were waving to?’ asked Charles, joining them. ‘Was it Father?’
‘It was Miss Casey,’ said Julia.
‘I don’t like her very much,’ said Charles, wrinkling up his nose.
‘You’re a boy of discerning taste,’ said Ralph.
‘What does discerning mean?’
‘It means you have good taste and know a rotten apple when you see one.’
Julia frowned. ‘You mustn’t repeat what Ralph has just said, Charles.’
‘Why not?’
‘Your father wouldn’t like it.’
‘But Father’s not here.’
‘True
. But he’ll be home soon.’
‘Maybe he’ll get stuck in the snow somewhere,’ said Ralph with a smile.
‘I hope he does,’ said Charles. ‘It’s a lot more fun without him.’
‘Darling,’ said Julia, ‘that’s not a nice thing to say.’
‘Well, it’s not nice some of the things Father says or does. I like it better when it’s just us. I’m going sledging again!’ And off he ran, happier than she had seen him in a long time.
‘As I say,’ muttered Ralph, ‘the boy has discerning taste.’
‘Ralph, please don’t turn him against his father, it wouldn’t be fair or right.’
‘Strikes me that Charlie has made his mind up already. And if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking and sounding a lot better today than you did last night when I arrived. You have some actual colour in your cheeks.’
‘That’s because of the cold.’
‘No it’s not. You’re beginning to feel alive, aren’t you? And more importantly, strong enough to stand up for yourself. You mustn’t let my father push you around anymore.’
Ralph was right to say she was feeling better; she was. And that was down to him. Being able to tell him everything that had been going on, and him believing her, made all the difference. For days she had been out of her mind with worry, desperately trying to think what she was going to do. Had she made a terrible mistake visiting Hope in hospital and telling her the truth? She had gone to church desperately wanting the power of prayer to calm her nerves, but it had made her feel even worse.
But this morning, after talking late into the night with Ralph, she woke up feeling a lot clearer-headed. Somehow, she had to escape, just as Ralph said. But when she thought how Arthur might react, how angry he would be, a shiver of fear ran through her. It made her wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to make more of an effort to be a better wife to Arthur. Surely she could do that for Charles’s sake, couldn’t she? If things could just be like they were in the beginning, because it hadn’t been so bad then, had it?
‘You mustn’t lose your nerve, Julia,’ said Ralph, as though picking up on her thoughts.
‘But what if loving Arthur more could help change him?’ she said. ‘It’s only when I do something wrong or annoy him that he becomes angry. It’s . . . it’s my fault he does what he does. If I just tried harder to please him, to be a more dutiful wife, maybe he—’
Ralph brought a stop to her words by clamping his hands down on her shoulders and making her face him head on. ‘Listen to yourself! Can you not hear how crazy you sound? Your husband ran his own sister over and is prepared to blame you if it gets out. How will loving him more change that?’
‘It’s because deep down he’s scared.’
‘No, it’s because deep down he’s evil! And trust me, when he’s had his fill of making your life hell, he’ll move on to Charles, if he hasn’t already.’
‘He wouldn’t! Not a defenceless child.’
Ralph removed his hands from her shoulders. ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘he would. He did it to me, so I know what I’m talking about. It’s just a matter of time, I assure you. He’ll never change.’
Her voice cracked as she asked, ‘Did he hit you?’
Ralph looked at her incredulously. ‘Did he hit me? My God, he thrashed me! And took too much pleasure in it, I swear. The man’s a sadist. With a father like that, is it any wonder I’ve turned out the way I have; feckless and with a pathological loathing for him?’
‘Mummy!’ shouted Charles. ‘Do you want to come on the sledge with me?’
Before she could answer, his tone urgent, Ralph said, ‘You must leave him, Julia. Do it for your son’s sake, if not your own. He’s a good kid. It would be the best Christmas present you could give the boy.’
The thought of her precious son coming to harm, of him being thrashed, made Julia feel unimaginable pain. It strengthened her resolve. ‘Will you really help me?’ she asked.
‘I told you last night I would. And I meant it.’
‘But why? Until now you’ve never really liked me.’
He smiled. ‘Call it a Road to Damascus change of heart.’
Her gaze wavering from his, she gave a small gasp.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s home.’
Ralph twisted his head and followed her gaze. There at the upstairs landing window was Arthur Devereux staring down at them.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Melstead Hall, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Ralph
His father’s blatant displeasure at seeing him was matched only by his disapproval that Julia had so obviously been enjoying herself.
‘My wife might at least have made more of an effort to welcome me home properly after the awful journey I endured to be here,’ he complained, his temper simmering darkly in his eyes.
‘We had no idea what time to expect you,’ Ralph said.
‘And I had no idea that you would be here,’ his father snarled across the drawing room. ‘I don’t recall inviting you.’
‘I invited him,’ said Julia. In the dwindling light, and moving silently, almost invisibly, around the large drawing room, she was switching on lamps.
Arthur turned from where he was warming his enormous porcine backside in front of the fire. ‘You?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, now absently straightening a cushion in one of the armchairs. ‘Christmas is a time for family, so I thought it would be nice for us all to be together.’
It was an audacious lie from Julia and impressed, Ralph went along with it. ‘I accepted the invitation in the hope it would give me the opportunity to apologise to you, Father,’ he said. ‘I was rude to you that evening at your club. I’m sorry.’
His father regarded him with disdain. ‘You can drop the act of contrition; I’m not taken in by it. I’ve seen it too many times before. You can leave first thing in the morning.’
‘But it’s Christmas Day tomorrow,’ said Julia, ‘you can’t make him go. And not in this weather.’
Arthur turned to look at her again. ‘Since when have you started telling me what I can and cannot do?’
‘I . . . I’m not telling you what to do,’ she stammered.
‘Bloody well sounds like it. This is my house and if I say Ralph goes, he goes. And that’s an end to it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’
‘Yes, Arthur,’ she said meekly.
Ralph could see Julia’s courage draining out of her. It was all he could do not to step in and remind her that she had to stay strong, that she mustn’t revert to the pathetically timid creature his father kept under his thumb. Remember the happy woman out in the garden on the sledge, he wanted to whisper in her ear, the woman who rolled in the snow and laughed with her son.
‘Now leave me to talk to Ralph,’ Arthur said with a dismissive wave of a hand. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, go and tidy yourself up. You look an embarrassing mess from all that cavorting in the snow. I don’t know what you were thinking. And later, and only if Charles has put on clean clothes as I asked, you can send him down to me.’
Her head lowered, Julia dutifully left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
Adopting his most nonchalant tone, Ralph said, ‘You do realise, Dad, that it’s 1962 and not an era when wives were chattels and treated like servants.’
‘The way I treat my wife is my business. And don’t think for one minute I don’t know what you’re up to.’
‘What would that be precisely?’
‘Encouraging Julia to disobey me. I watched you while you were in the garden and without hearing a word that passed between you, I could see that you were filling her head with nonsense.’
‘To disobey you?’ Ralph repeated. ‘From which Victorian novel do you take your views on marriage?’
Arthur j
abbed a finger in the air at him. ‘You’re skating on very thin ice, I suggest you don’t say another word.’
‘Why?’ demanded Ralph, squaring up to his father. A good deal taller, he had the advantage and could easily look down on his grotesque blob of a father. ‘What will you do, beat me like you did when I was a child?’
‘Far worse than that,’ the old man sneered. ‘I shall cut off your allowance completely.’
‘Go ahead,’ retaliated Ralph. ‘I couldn’t give a damn about your money. It’s been nothing but a millstone round my neck anyway.’
‘Let’s see if you’re still saying that in however many weeks it takes for your funds to run dry. If they haven’t already. Which I expect is the real reason you’re here.’
‘You couldn’t be more wrong,’ said Ralph. Turning away from his father, he went over to the drinks table and helped himself to a glass of whisky. ‘I suppose this is still allowed, is it?’
‘Help yourself while you still can. Because after tomorrow I don’t want to see you here ever again. You’re to leave Julia alone, too. And my son, Charles. I don’t want you having any kind of influence over him.’
Ralph drank half the glass in one go, refilled it, then turned to look at the man before him. ‘I wonder what made you the repellent monster you are?’ he said. ‘The psychologists would have a field day figuring you out. As for Charles, I can only fear what you’ll turn him into.’
‘In my opinion, so long as he doesn’t turn out like you, he’ll be fine.’
‘You believe that, do you?’ Ralph shook his head. ‘The poor little sod doesn’t stand a chance.’
He contemplated telling his father that he knew who was to blame for Hope being in hospital, but decided against it. He needed more ammunition up his sleeve before he was prepared to reveal that particular trump card. Moreover, to bring up the accident now would only leave Julia vulnerable to more punishment. She was probably going to be punished tonight anyway. Unless Ralph could intervene in some way.
He drained his glass of whisky. ‘Well, it seems we’ve said all we need to say to each other. So I shall go and change out of these wet clothes. If that meets with your approval?’